A Bloody Awful (Birth)Day
by Writin'Redhead
Summary: DI Greg Lestrade is having an absolutely horrible day. - Like seriously, he wished, he'd never even left his bed this morning. Why did it feel like everything was out to get him today? - But luckily, there are some people to first make it worse, and then better. - T for language and a bit of snogging. - Established Relationships


**Disclaimer: These characters belong to ACD and the BBC.**

 **I had the idea after a shitty day and needed someone to share the pain... Sorry, Greg.**

 **Also, it was meant to be a (now a little late) Christmas present for my two Sherlock companions (they probably think I've lost it for shipping Mystrade ^^)**

 **Hope you'll all enjoy it ~**

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A Bloody Awful (Birth)Day

"Fuck! Why does that stuff have to be so hot?!"

The spray of freshly brewed coffee hit Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade head-on. Or more accurately, crotch-on, since the Yard's coffee maker was placed on the perfect height just to do that. He had merely wanted to have a nice, warm cup of coffee to get him through the rest of the day, when the accursed piece of technology decided to even deny him this small joy.

"Why doesn't it stop?! How do I get this bloody- _Shit! Ow!_ "

Trying to stop the scalding flow, Greg desperately pushed several random button combinations until he opted for the unimaginative approach of simply pressing his hands over the nozzle. It didn't work. He quickly let go again before he had his fingers cooked by the cheapest blend Sainsbury's offered. Not knowing what else to do, he turned and yelled in direction of his subordinates' desks.

"DONOVAN! Get in 'ere!"

Considering the sergeant probably spent more of her time in the small kitchen then at her desk, she was the best option.

There was no answer.

Greg glared at the culprit, deciding whether it was beneath his dignity to shoot an electronic coffee maker or not. Then, acting all innocent, as if it hadn't just attacked an experienced member of the New Scotland Yard, the machine suddenly stopped. Leaving behind a thoroughly soaked and equally annoyed Detective Inspector.

On any other day, this probably wouldn't have been too bad. Just a bit of spilled coffee. He might have even laughed about it. But not today. Especially _today_. Not after this bloody awful day.

Not after he'd been stuck in traffic and ended up ten minutes too late for his testimony. Not after he'd lost this morning's court case, only to walk out and discover some prick had left a huge scratch on the front door of his car. Not after one misfiled piece of evidence had led to one greasy lawyer forcing them to release their only suspect. Not after the tantrum of one damned coffee maker.

Bad enough he'd woken up alone in his cold bed this morning. Alone with nothing but a single, miserable little piece of paper on the pillow next to him. Written on it in dark ink was _Crisis in the Middle East. I am sorry. See you tonight. MH_

Already in a mood, Greg had gotten up, grumbling to himself as he'd dressed for the day. His usual dark sports jacket and a light-blue shirt.

"That man's the bloody personification of the government and MI6 together, and he _still_ doesn't know what day today is. I don't believe it."

Shutting his door with slightly more force than necessary, he had made his way to work. Little had the DI known it wouldn't exactly get better.

Venting his frustration about not only the still hot stain on his jeans, but also everything else that had gone wrong up until now, Greg kicked the shelf upon which the machine stood. The only effect it had, was reminding the DI painfully of that - when it came down to it - a wooden board always won over thin leather shoes.

It hurt like hell. Not to mention, the wet stain started to look more and more like he'd just pissed himself.

 _What a great day,_ Greg thought sarcastically.

"Boss?" Suddenly he heard Donovan's voice from behind.

 _Well,_ now _she decides to turn up. Speaking of fast reactions…_ With a roll of his eyes Greg raised his arms, only to let them fall back down. And those were the people he trusted with his life out on the streets?

"What is it?" She asked after he'd turned round, but then paused to stare at his pants. "Did you just-"

The corners of her mouth were already twitching upwards, without doubt preparing for a well-placed quip, when Greg cut her off.

"Don't," he warned, barely keeping a growl from his voice. "Just don't. Hooper always needs someone to help with the clean-up."

Donovan clasped her mouth shut and turned on her heels.

It gave Greg a tiny bit of satisfaction knowing the threat still worked. Although, he wondered, why after all those years, neither Donovan nor Anderson had ever thought about the fact that Molly officially was a St. Bart's employee, and Bart's was not within Greg's jurisdiction. Well, not his fault if they still believed he could make them scrub blood off steel.

 _Molly..._ That reminded him: He still had to get those autopsy results from Thursday's double...

Greg decided he might as well go himself. Some fresh air might actually be good a good idea.

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When he arrived at the morgue, Molly was just about to wrap her scarf around her neck, obviously preparing to leave. It was shortly after half past four. The morgue usually closed around six.

She looked at him as if she'd seen a ghost.

"G-greg? What are _you_ doing here?"

"The Emmerson case?" Greg asked, rather shirty. "Two people, shot in the head, only one bullet used? Ring a bell?"

He did notice his tone was a little gruffer than he'd intended to, but considering the pathologist had spent all those years working _with_ Sherlock _without_ killing him, she could probably take it. "Sorry," he added nevertheless, feeling a bit bad. "Today's not my day. "

"No worries." Molly gave him a quick smile "But, well... you know … I was just about to leave and..."

"Yeah. I noticed," Greg pointed out dryly and she started to hectically gesture something with her hands, probably meant to be placatory motion.

"You'll get it tomorrow, first thing in the morning, promise, I'll even bring it myself, okay? But I really have to go now, see you later - Oh! I didn't mean _later_ later, just... the normal later... no I-"

Molly bit her lip to stop herself from talking, not meeting Greg's eyes. Then she managed to get out a quick "Bye!" and without giving him any chance to object, she was out the door.

"That was a bit... weird. As well as utterly unproductive," Greg muttered as he stood in the now deserted morgue (Mr and Mrs Emmerson in drawer three and four didn't count). He still did not have his report and had merely wasted thirty minutes of time and fuel.

Grudgingly he made his way back to the Yard.

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Passing the Chief Superintendent's office, Greg remembered yesterday's conversation. Or more precisely, remembered getting chewed out. It had been his _one_ free day. One single free day, and Sherlock just had to go and pick a fight with that pillock Milton. He should have known the younger man would be attracted to the weird double murder, but this still did not give him any right to interfere into _anything_ without Greg's okay. Not that Sherlock had ever cared about that, hell no.

But the main problem was, other divisions were not as lenient towards the detective as Greg's, and so the DCI had found yet another complaint on his desk and had called Lestrade on the carpet, yelling about better keeping a closer eye on his "consultant", or an investigation about unauthorised access to crime scenes might be launched. Very soon.

Greg flopped down ungracefully behind his desk and rubbed his temples. If science ever needed to describe the headache he was sporting, Greg could provide a few ideas. It was about six foot tall, dark-haired, and most of the time an insufferable pain in the arse.

At least he still had tonight to look forward to. Just sit on the couch, watch a bit of crap telly, two portions of frowned-upon takeaway, maybe a beer for himself and some wine for-

His pocket vibrated, and he took out his mobile.

"Are you kidding me?!" He groaned as he read the short message.

 _Gregory, I am afraid I must cancel our scheduled meeting this evening. An unexpected matter has arisen. I believe you understand. -MH_

"Oh, I bloody well understand, you tosser. You're blowing off our date for the prime minister of fuck-knows-where. Today of all days… Thanks a bunch, Mycroft."

One year of dating and it still felt like the hierarchy of their relationship was Secret Government Work, then Official Government Work, and somewhere after that _Greg_.

Although, from an unbiased point of view, he knew, he wasn't exactly the one to talk. Not with three missed dates this month alone. One MisPer, one kidnapping, and that double homicide they were still busy with. None of them were his fault per se, he liked to tell himself, but he knew, it always took two people to make things work. And just like Mycroft lived for his work, Greg lived for his.

It was just... A calm evening, just the two of them... He'd kind of looked forward to it.

Swallowing his disappointment, Greg turned to the screen and opened the file containing the transcript of yesterday's interrogation, as a dark laugh escaped him.

"Burying myself in work... Aren't I coping perfectly?" He asked himself bitterly. "Doing just what's causing problems in the first place..."

It was about an hour and two cups of tea later - Greg had sworn off coffee for the day - that his mobile buzzed again. This time Sherlock's number on the display. He was more than tempted to just ignore it. But a single glance at the incoming text was enough to set off the alarm bells in his head.

 _Come to Baker Street. Now. -SH_

His mind raced, coming up with all kinds of scenarios. Kidnapping, blackmailing, murder threats. Why else would Sherlock call for him?! He never texted for the sake of exchanging pleasantries or electronic small talk, god forbid. He only ever did so if there was a massive crisis at hand!

Greg checked for his Glock to be in its holster, grabbed his coat, and was about to yell for Donovan and Anderson to move their arses, when it buzzed once more.

 _Alone. Don't bring any idiots. -SH_

 _Oh god. Definitely a kidnapping_ , was his last though before he sprinted down to the car park.

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Leaving his grey BMW directly under a no-parking sign, Greg hurried to the door of 221B. It was slightly ajar. Not that he considered himself superstitious, but Greg was sure that was a bad omen. There was only silence, when he stepped into the hall.

In all the previous years that the DI had made his frequent and more or less voluntary trips down to Baker Street, Greg had seen a lot. By now, he was mostly used to the deafening explosions, able to ignore the stench coming from the fridge, together with John's subsequent yelling about body parts whose origins he did not want to know of, tolerated the continuous jabs against his inability to solve even the "obvious ones", and had recovered from his shock of walking in on Sherlock and John _celebrating_ the closure of a successful case. But there was one thing he'd never encountered before.

And that was silence.

First, he checked on Mrs Hudson. Maybe their energetic landlady knew what was going on and could provide him with a tactical advantage.

"Mrs Hudson...?" He hissed as he stuck his head around the corner of flat on the ground floor. Except for a cold cup of tea, there was no one. It only served to increase Greg's feeling of foreboding.

"Shit," he cursed and ran a hand through his short grey hair before he made his way upstairs, careful, so as not to make too much noise by avoiding the creakiest steps.

Through the opal glass pane, he could make out several blurred figures. One of them definitely Sherlock, pacing around the room, the others standing too close together to get a good look at their silhouettes. But there were at least four of them, that Greg was sure of. He didn't like being outnumbered. Damn Sherlock! Why'd he have to go and do what that brat told him to?! He should have brought backup!

Greg tightened his grip on the Glock, thumb on the safety and his index finger hovering over the trigger. He took a deep breath before he kicked down the door. He was sure, due to circumstances, they'd forgive him the property damage.

"POLICE! Don't anybody move!"

Greg's voice bellowed through the small flat. Startling five people. Five people with very familiar faces.

"Goodness gracious me! Detective Inspector!"

"W-what's going on?!"

"For heaven's sake, Greg, put the gun down!"

"Gregory, dear, how nice to see you. I take it, you are rather surprised."

"Although I have to agree with you on the troublesomeness of a "Surprise Birthday Party", I don't think force of arms is appropriate, Lestrade."

That … was... That was _not_ what he'd been expecting...

In the room stood, all outfitted with equally ridiculous party hats: Mrs Hudson, clutching her heart, close to Molly Hooper, a shocked expression on her face. One the opposite side John, falling into combat mode and his eyes fixed on Greg's gun. Beside him, Sherlock, wearing an expression as if he thought of the whole matter as utterly tedious and was eager to get it over with. And Mycroft, in a surprisingly casual - but, circumstances aside, absolutely hot in Greg's option - waistcoat-less suit and tie.

Greg tried saying something, anything, but it seemed like the only thing he could do, was standing there, blinking and gaping like a goldfish. Only now did the DI notice the large banner hung upon the wall opposite the entry.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

And it all fell into place.

"Close your mouth, will you? It looks stupid. Even more so than usual." Sherlock rolled his eyes and let himself fall backwards into his chair, earning a disapproving glance from Mycroft.

"Watch your tongue, brother-mine," the elder Holmes brother said, making Greg look towards him. Mycroft gave him a reaffirming smile and nod of the head as a greeting. It was enough to snap Greg from his stupor.

"Oh, you bastards..." he heard himself say. The only slowly dwindling adrenaline in blood mixed with the feeling of relief and genuine joy over his friends' surprise, and Greg was grinning from one ear to the other, the laughter lines around his eyes well visible. "I don't believe it! Is that why nobody said a word about it all day?! Whose idea was it?! Not that I'd expect much from RoboHolmes here!" He motioned towards Sherlock. "That bloody text scared me half to death!"

And for the first time that day Greg was really laughing. A deep, heartfelt laugh, shaking off every stupid thing that'd been thrown his way today.

Still watching Greg's reaction, John shot Sherlock a quick look, mouthing "What the heck did you text him?" before he answered the DI. "Actually, it was all Mycroft…"

"What, really?"

It was now that it registered in Greg's mind, he was _actually looking at Mycroft_. The look from his own dark brown eyes being returned by bluish-grey ones. Mycroft, who stood there, in his brother's small flat, leaned slightly upon his favourite, coal coloured umbrella. Mycroft, who was not supposed to be here.

"Wait a second…" Greg said aloud, the smile still on his face, but drawing up an eyebrow. As much as he appreciated his boyfriend's presence - Hell, Greg was all for it. It was promising certain other, following pleasantries - this didn't exactly fit with his earlier information. "Aren't you supposed to be miles away right now, negotiating with the high and mighty?" There was a second of silence. Then it came to him. "Right… All part of the big plan, wasn't it? But why'd you do it? I thought you hated birthdays."

Mycroft coughed a little. "I apologise for deceiving you in such ways, Gregory, but... Well, you made such a big deal out of mine last year and I simply couldn't see why. Why would you go out of your way just to commemorate one more year of physical decline by socialising and wearing silly hats -"

Greg opened his mouth to say something, although he was not yet sure what, and Mycroft shushed him, holding up his hand.

"Ah, ah, let me finish. Because now I _do_ understand. It is not just a mere excuse for people to have meaningless conversations while wearing silly hats… although, we still seem to be doing that..." The tall man gave a brief chuckle as he looked at the small round. "It's a way to show the people you love just how much you care about them. That's why I wanted to do this, to show you how much I care for you. To show you how much I -"

"Stop talking." Greg commanded. He'd heard enough.

Then he pulled Mycroft down by his silky, probably damn expensive tie and crashed their mouths together.

He only vaguely noticed Mrs Hudson's amused comment about the joys of youth (it had been years since anyone had called him young, and Greg couldn't help but feel a little smug), or Molly's surprised gasp, barely audible over the rushing in his ears, and he found it surprisingly easy to ignore Sherlock's blatant retching noises.

They both took their time. Just savouring each other's presence, undisturbed by everything else. Yes. That was it. What he'd been needing all day long. His lips pressed against Mycroft's. Moving together in one synchronised rhythm. Perfect.

When they parted for a bit of very much needed oxygen, Greg noticed that, although his hand had loosened its grip on Mycroft's tie, it was still pressed against the other's shirt-clad chest. Greg brushed over it once, his eyes following the moment and not meeting Mycroft's.

"I thought you forgot."

"Never," Mycroft answered, and brought their lips together once more.

Trying to give the couple at least a tiny bit of privacy, the others averted their eyes, Molly and Mrs Hudson engaging in conversation about the merits of post-mortems (the latter a little less enthusiastic), some finding another, apparently more interesting object to focus their attention on.

John could outright feel the detective's gaze burning holes into him. When he experimentally shifted his weight from one leg to the other, the observant gaze followed. The doctor cleared his throat.

"Sherlock… What are you doing?"

"Looking at you, isn't it obvious?"

"Nope, you're staring," John corrected. "…But what I'm asking is, _why_ are you staring at me? And don't you dare say "It's obvious", because that is _not_ an answer for us mere mortals."

Sherlock sighed. Stating in a rather matter-of-factly voice, "In a few seconds, I will have to go to the kitchen and treat my eyes with hydrochloric acid, to get rid of this upsetting imagery. There are some things even my mind isn't able to cope with." It wasn't entirely clear to John whether his shudder was real or not. "And because I really don't want the last thing my eyes have seen to be my brother making out with Lestrade, I therefore have to overwrite said disturbing image before erasing it from my retinas. Questions, John?"

The doctor seemed to ponder for a second before opening his mouth to speak.

"... Why do we have hydrochloric acid in the kitchen?" He already dreaded the answer.

"Experiment...s." Adding the final sound, Sherlock gave it a bit more stress. "Plural."

Greg, who was finally separating from Mycroft, turned towards the shorter of the two men. "That's what bothers you?! Cheers, mate!"

But he was ignored by the both of them.

John was now zeroing in on his flatmate as well as partner in every sense of the word, not the least bit impressed by Sherlock's towering appearance or cocky attitude. He was way too used to it.

"Please tell me, you didn't touch what I consider "our food"."

Sherlock looked away, not meeting John's inquisitive glance. John sighed and pinched his nose. "Or anything else that comes in contact _with_ food?"

The answer came with no small amount off reluctance. "… maybe."

"Bloody hell!" John exploded. "How many times have I told you not to mess with the kitchen?!"

But Sherlock was just as quick to counter. "You didn't make it clear what specifically I shouldn't touch!"

Their back and forth was still in full swing, when Mycroft leaned over, bringing his face near the side of Greg's head.

"Don't pay their childish antics any heed, Gregory dear," he said in a low murmur, now close enough for Greg to feel his breath tickling in the fine hairs of his neck. "We can always just leave them to it and head to your flat… I would very much like to give you my… present."

"And that might be...? Greg replied smirking. Whenever his sometimes a little uptight lover indulged in a bit of verbal foreplay, Greg was just too happy to play along.

"Oh, why don't you let me show you? _In private._ " The tone of Mycroft's voice had dropped yet a little further, and Greg couldn't help but take notice of the alluring rumble coming from his chest.

Unconsciously his own tone adjusted to one on par with Mycroft's. He hummed. "Got me interested there. Seems like we have to hurry up, then, because I can hardly wait to find out."

"Sounds good. But I am not telling you yet. As you know, ignorance serves to increase the _anticipation_." The last word laced with enough unspoken implication, Greg felt his smirk increasing even more. As far as that was still possible.

"D'you know, you're making it _harder_ by the second?" He asked.

As if on cue, Sherlock's head snapped up, away from his banter with John, and facing the DI and his brother. Apparently, the possibility of such blatant ignorance on Greg's side of their flirtatious little to and fro, had become too much for him to ignore.

"Really, Lestrade, sometimes I wonder whether there's anything beneath that grey hair of yours or not. How can you not guess what? According to the occasion of your birthday, and taking into consideration your current relationship status as one that has long since moved beyond what is commonly referred to as "third base", clearly, Mycroft wants you to -"

His voice was abruptly cut off by John, sensing trouble, and clasping his hand over the detective's mouth with a warning hiss of "Sherlock!". It caused Mycroft to endow his brother with a particularly dark look, but Greg just turned his head towards the detective.

"Oh, trust me, I know. And d'you know what else, Sherlock? We might just do that."

He was pretty sure some way or another, Sherlock would get back at him for that, but right now he felt like nothing could ruffle him anymore.

Only a short while after, they wrapped the party up. Molly claimed she planned on dropping by her new boyfriend's place. Sherlock and John were long since busy trying not to look at each other too obviously, apparently envisioning whatever they'd do after the rest of them were gone, and Mrs Hudson wanted to catch the last minutes of the _Antiques Roadshow_. So after Greg had plucked the ticket from his windshield, crumbling it into his pocket, and Mycroft occupied the passenger seat, he leaned back in his car and took a deep breath.

All in all, Greg would say, he felt thoroughly content with how this day had turned out to be. And it wasn't even over yet.

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"I don't bloody believe it! Will you look at that?!" That same evening, a couple of hours and exhausting activities later, Mycroft watched the Detective Inspector standing in front of the small pile of gifts his friends and colleagues had presented him with. He was clad in merely a pair of dark boxers and his unbuttoned dress shirt. From his comfortable spot on the double bed, Mycroft enjoyed the view. "Your brother actually gave me a card! Sherlock wrote me a birthday card!"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Really," he inquired, his head propped up on one elbow. During the course of more than twenty years, Sherlock hadn't ever bothered to go through the trouble of writing one to his own brother.

"Yeah, it stuck to the back of Molly's chocolates." Gregory seemed fascinated by the small envelope, and Mycroft observed him opening the card and reading the lines he presumed Sherlock had put in his elegant writing. The DI's expression turned a bit funny, Mycroft decided as he watched him closing the card again and taking a deep breath.

"What does it say?" He asked, now slightly curious himself. It wasn't forbidden to take interest in one's brother's doings every once in a while, now was it?

"Sometimes I don't know whether to hug or strangle him..."

Mycroft nodded in agreement, an amused tone making its way into his voice. "A cross we all have to bear."

"Listen to that," Gregory said, opening it once more and beginning to read. "Dear Graham, John said I had to do this. He'd ignore me for a week if I didn't. Since I don't know what would be appropriate, I will just save you some time. Don't waste it." He paused for a second, barely suppressing a snort and shaking his head, before he continued. "Your killer is the Emmerson's gardener. Motive: The lottery ticket in the biscuit tin. His flight to Argentina departs at 3.55 pm, Gatwick airport, terminal eight, Tuesday the 22. You've got about a day left. Have fun shagging my brother. Happy Birthday - Sherlock Holmes."

After Gregory had finished reading what sounded in Mycroft's ears oh so much like his insolent little brother, he sunk back down onto the mattress, silently fixing his lover with a look swaying somewhere in-between disbelief and amusement.

"Well..." Mycroft said, deliberately taking his time in first glancing at the clock upon the bedroom wall, and then back at the handsome, silver-haired, gorgeous man he got to call his own. He rolled onto his side, moving a bit closer. "For once in my life I have to admit, I fully agree with him."

 _fin_

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 **A/N**

 **That's it, my first Sherlock fic. What do you think? I'm overjoyed to get feedback, so please, don't hold back ^^**

 **Thanks for reading**

 **~Writin'Redhead**


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